Yes, sometimes with the heavier folks, he had to drag them a little ways because he couldn’t lift them, but he always cleaned off the twigs and pebbles before handing them over to the family or friends. It wasn’t like a little dragging was going to make them any deader.
He would deal with Florence Knack’s body in a moment, though. First things first. He needed to locate her soul. He replaced the sheet over her and looked around. “Mrs. Knack?” He didn’t see her in the room, but spirits had notoriously short attention spans and often wandered off. Sometimes they had unfinished business to attend to and went to find the closest Fifth Wind to help them sort it out.
Ted checked the bathroom, but no luck. Same in the living room. The kitchen was absent of her spirit as well. At first, he wasn’t worried. This happened from time to time. There was no rush, even if he felt urgency from so many months alone.
But then he noticed something alarming. His sense of Doom was gone. It usually carried on until he’d convinced the spirit to journey with him into the Beyond.
He hurried out of the cottage, attracting the attention of the sheriff and the leprechaun. “Heh. Just forgot one of my tools.” He snuck a quick look around for the soul but already knew he’d find nothing. “I’ll be right back to get the body.”
This was bad. The Doom wasn’t lessened, it was gone. It seemed that he’d lost the woman’s soul.
He didn’t run into problems on the job often, but when he did, they were usually very, very bad.
He hurried down the road and out of Erin Park, making a beeline for the only person he could think of who might be able to save his hide.
4
By the time he reached the blue three-story cottage of Ruby True, Ted was nearly in a panic. He needed Fifth Wind powers, and while he would have loved to enlist Nora’s help—he’d often dreamed about the two of them solving mysteries together—she was busy at work. And besides, Ruby had decades of experience on Nora when it came to this kind of thing.
It also didn’t hurt that he knew Ruby to be perfectly fine with working slightly outside the rule of law if needed. He hoped it didn’t come to that, but if he could avoid having Sheriff Bloom, whose high opinion of him meant the world, discover this slight hiccup, all the better.
He was entirely trapped in his anxious thoughts when he announced himself on Ruby’s doorstep—knock, knock, knock. He didn’t realize the mistake he’d made until he heard the old Fifth Wind witch’s voice on the other side of the door:
“If you think I’m fool enough to answer anything that knocks thrice, you may want to find yourself a different psychic! Do not darken my doorstep! Be gone!”
Ted leaned closer to the door. “Sorry, Ruby. Heh. It’s just me, Ted. I totally spaced.”
A moment’s pause, then the door creaked open and he could see the slightest sliver of the woman’s face. It was enough to tell she was already annoyed with him.
“It is you,” she said. Then she opened the door wider. “I figured it was some dark entity.”
“It is some dark entity. Heh.”
She grinned mischievously, and the expression seemed to shed twenty years from her face. “True enough. Come on in.”
A few moments later, she brought over a tea tray with two handmade ceramic mugs and a steaming kettle and set it on the parlor table in front of him. The first floor of her home was hardly more than a single room that included the table in the middle, a kitchen on one side, and a fireplace and sitting room on the other. Two doors led off from it, one to a bathroom, and the other to the stairs that led up to the second and third stories. He’d never been up those stairs before, but he knew Nora’s rented room was there. He tore his mind away from those notions when Ruby asked him to explain why he had come.
“Florence Knack hasn’t visited you this morning, has she?”
Ruby’s gray brows rose toward the curly shock of hair on her head. “Florence Knack? I think the last time I spoke with her was nearly ten years ago at the Lunasa Festival. I wasn’t even aware she was still alive.” She poured his tea.
“She’s not. Not as of this morning or possibly last night.”
“Ah. That sort of visit from her. No, I’m afraid not.” She set down the kettle and inspected him closely. “Does that mean neither of us know where her spirit is presently?”
“Heh,” was all he said.
She nodded. “You’ve done me quite a few favors in my time since I arrived in Eastwind all those years ago. My guess is that you’d like my discretion on this matter, but more than that, you’d like my assistance.”
“The meditation thing. I thought it might help.”
“It’s possible. And since I’m at a good stopping point in my novel anyway, I’m happy to do what I can.”
She stood and approached a wingback chair by the fire.
“What are you reading?” he asked.
“The Fang Glorious Affair.”
“Sounds steamy.” He wondered if he could check out a copy of it at the library without it being too conspicuous.
Ruby shot him a glance as she settled into her chair, and her eyes sparkled. “Oh, it is. I’ll lend you my copy once I’m done so you don’t have to visit the library for it.”
“It’s not that I don’t love the library—”
She held up a hand. “I get it. Now hush so I can focus.”
As she closed her eyes, he did as he was told, opting to pass the silence by taking in the many details of her home. Dangling from the ceiling above his head, and indeed above everything, were countless wards and charms made of bone and wood and metal, feathers and dried herbs and stones. The place was so fortified against unwelcome entities, it buoyed his ego to know he’d made the cut. Usually people wanted to keep him out. But, of course, someone like Ruby True would be much more comfortable in his presence than the average Eastwinder.
She cleared her throat, pulling his attention. “Are you quite sure you didn’t already accompany Florence’s spirit on?”
“Yes. Memory like an iron casket.” He tapped his noggin with his index finger. “Why?”
The older woman looked uncertain. “The image that appeared to me was of you accompanying her through the Deadwoods. That’s all I saw.”
He considered it. “Could it have been prophetic? Something that hasn’t yet happened?”
“Perhaps.” But her pinched brow said she highly doubted it. “I tried to reach Florence from my in-between place, but I didn’t see her there, either. It’s as if she’s already passed on.”
“But that’s impossible without my knowing.”
Ruby shrugged. “Say what you will. I’m simply telling you what I saw.”
He nodded, reeling in his disappointment. This should have solved everything. What else could he do?
5
Dear Necronomicon,
A day has passed since Florence Knack’s soul disappeared. I asked Ruby to send an owl my way immediately if she heard anything, and still no owl. I fear I’ve failed Mrs. Knack’s eternal soul, that it is lost to the ether, lost to time and space, neither of which exist in the Beyond, I’m told.
The loneliness has settled in like a fog. Did she flee? Would her soul have rather vanished than spend a few minutes alongside me? The cloak feels heavy today. So heavy, I have been unable to leave my home. How many moons has it been since I missed breakfast at Medium Rare? But I know the coffee would only taste bitter, the pancakes bland, and the bacon like ash in my mouth were I to try it today. I don’t deserve to be with other Eastwinders, with any of them. My sole purpose in this realm is to be a friend in their darkest hour as their souls shed their mortal coils and venture through night into day, and it seems I’ve become impotent on that count. Again, I ask myself what good is a reaper who cannot reap? My loneliness has long been assuaged by my sense of purpose, but with that stolen from me …
Yet there is a single fact of this strange case that I cannot shake. Ruby saw me escorting Florence through the Deadwoods. While her visions have
often been cryptic, they’ve never proven false. And so I’m left wondering how it could be. Have I lost time? Is there a piece missing from my memory? Or is this something that has not yet come to pass, an assurance of my success in finding the missing soul? When I pose the latter question, however, the aging Fifth Wind’s face comes to mind. She knew it was no prophecy. A symbol, perhaps? It leaves me with the greatest sense of unease.
If I cannot find Florence and ensure her safe passage, I have a notion that my separateness will consume me, that death—the thing I am but cannot have—shall become the greatest mercy I can never receive. Loneliness is a fate worse than death.
Oh! Before I forget, I saw Jen and Kev making eyes at each other just before I sat down. Very adorbs. But since phoenixes don’t mate, I’m not sure what it might lead to. Regardless, the growing bond between them is unmistakable.
And now I am even more miserable.
* * *
Ted wished more than ever that he could sleep. Losing time sounded like a luxury. He had far too much of it on his hands. The sense of disconnection was all he saw in his future.
What if I never reap again?
But just then, it happened. His sense of Doom. It lit up.
There was another Eastwinder to reap!
He shouldn’t be so excited, after all, what if it was someone he especially liked? Though dying wasn’t bad, he still often missed people once they were gone.
He stood suddenly from his writing desk, causing Bob and Kit to squawk and burst into little fireballs, then he grabbed his scythe and hurried toward the source of the pull, determined not to let the soul slip away this time.
The source was all the way in the wealthy Hightower Gardens neighborhood on the other side of town, and he ran the whole way, faintly aware that the sight of him sprinting through the Eastwind Emporium would be considered a bad omen by even the least superstitious witness.
Many folks were still under the impression that he just appeared places, but that wasn’t the case; he had to get around just like everyone else. Well, except for the witches on their brooms. For some reason he didn’t think the town would take it very well if their reaper started flying.
By the time he arrived at the home and hopped the gate around the property, Sheriff Bloom was already there. But, of course, she didn’t have to walk. The angel could fly without the use of a broom, and it was quite a thing to behold when her wings were fully outstretched, and she swooped and soared through the sky on her way to an emergency.
Out of breath, he addressed her. “I’m here. Heh.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why are you out of breath?” Her eyes flickered to his scythe.
“I was in my cabin when I got word, and I ran the whole way.”
She turned to face him fully. “You were in your cabin all morning?”
“Yep.”
“Didn’t go to Medium Rare this morning?”
“Huh? No. I, uh…” Now didn’t seem like the time to tell her about the gnawing emptiness and the craving for companionship. “I wasn’t hungry.”
“And how long were you at home before you left just now?”
He thought about it. “I got there late last night. After the scene yesterday, I, uh, visited a friend, and then I went for a calm walk in the Deadwoods,” (he had spent hours frantically searching for Florence Knack’s spirit) “and then I went home. Wait, why are you asking me this?”
“Follow me, Ted.” She nodded toward the towering estate. “It’s Joseph Moon.”
The house was deathly quiet, for obvious reasons, and Bloom led him into a sitting room. On the low table in front of a sofa sat a tea tray with a kettle and a single cup halfway full of a dark, earthy liquid. It was something about tea for one that struck him, and for the first time in probably a thousand years, he felt as if he would cry.
Of course, now wasn’t the time, because on the sofa sat a murdered man. Not just dead, clearly murdered. Unless, of course, the man had found some way of cutting off his own head.
That would be quite the trick, heh.
One of Ted’s favorite things about Sheriff Bloom was that he didn’t have to pretend with her. She was immortal as well, and in her position of crime-fighting authority for so long, the avenging angel had seen almost as much death as he had. The sorry fact was that the end was usually unpleasant. Painful, frightening, full of regrets. But what came after it more than made up for that brief moment of discomfort. He knew that from chatting with the spirits, and Bloom knew it however angels knew things. They didn’t see spirits, but they clearly had some sort of sense for them.
And speaking of spirits …
He looked around for the man’s soul. Nothing. He stepped away from the body to peek behind a wingback chair. No soul there either.
“Ted, I need your expert opinion.”
“Huh?”
“With the body.”
He was no medical examiner or magical examiner, but he had seen a few things in his time.
He returned to stand by the couch. “Yes?”
“That cut looks awfully clean, doesn’t it?”
He looked at the place where the head had been. “Oh yes, very clean. The beheading was probably done with a single stroke, don’t you think?”
She was staring at him strangely. “Yes, I do believe you’re right.”
Something shimmery on the werewolf’s shoulder caught his eye, and he reached out a gloved hand and touched it. The substance stuck to his finger, and he brought it closer to his hood to inspect it. It couldn’t be …
“What is it?” Bloom asked quietly.
She wouldn’t be able to see it, though. Only those who could see the dead would. It was a transparent substance and as he held it up, it appeared full of rainbows as the light caught it. Just as much liquid as air, the stuff was unmistakable.
Soul juice.
There might have been another word for it, but no one had taught him what it was. He’d had no reaping mentor, since this job was almost all instinct.
“It’s soul juice,” he said. The term sounded even sillier spoken aloud, but Bloom didn’t laugh.
Instead, she eyed him closely and asked, “And what sort of instrument could have done that?”
“Hmm … that’s a good—” But then he saw her eyes flicker to his scythe.
6
Dear Necronomicon,
I fear Sheriff Bloom thinks me a murderer. She wouldn’t come right out and say it, but it was clear enough that I’m at the top of her list of suspects. And why shouldn’t I be? The closer I inspected the fatal wound of Joseph Moon, the clearer it became that the blow was delivered with something much akin to my own reaping scythe. Only, there is no sense to be made of that. Mine is a tool, not a weapon. Since the day it was first given to me upon my assignment to Eastwind, it has merely served as a symbol for my duty. My job is to collect what has already grown and flowered so that new things may grow in its place, not to cut down the wheat before its time. It horrifies me to think of anything else. And yet, the facts of the case cannot be ignored.
One theory, which has haunted me in stages, is that this deep loneliness and need for connection, when so deprived, could be resulting in a series of blackouts. Would I even know? Have I been losing time during these long, lonesome hours? I must wonder: am I forgetting things? Did I collect Florence Knack’s soul without retaining any memory of such? Did I deliver the death blow to Joseph Moon? Could I have?
I worry I’m nearing the ultimate reaper conclusion, the one that waits for each of my kind. Not death, but madness. Madness, then oblivion. I would become nothing, no afterlife, just the end. I have read rumors of such, but I always thought them incredible. And yet I find myself here, embroiled in this growing mystery.
But more immediately disturbing is that I’ve lost another soul. I could locate the werewolf Moon nowhere in his home nor around the grounds. Both Ruby and Nora confirmed, upon my correspondence with them, that neither had seen the werewolf’s spirit. Why
would someone who lives such a solitary life not wait for me to accompany him on?
Or perhaps he did. Perhaps I was there.
Is it possible?
If only I had a friend to confide all this in, a partner to walk the dark road alongside me, to share my thoughts and my burdens with, and who would share hers with me. Oh, Despair! Despair! I would do anything, I think, to have that wish fulfilled. To not feel this encroaching
* * *
Pam squawked, pulling his attention. The phoenix, who must have had a nightmare and burst into flames while she’d slept, was now sprinting across his mantle in fiery surprise. “Come here, silly,” he said, intercepting her and cradling her to his chest to extinguish the last of the flames with his cloak. “Shh… there, there, Pam.” She quieted and fell asleep. “If only I had a soul to accompany somewhere … Everything would be better then.”
* * *
Ted was sure to knock four times on this visit. Ruby True stared up at him with a bemused expression, but as she opened her mouth to speak, he interrupted her. “I need another one of your visions. Premonitions. Whatever it is you do.”
“Who is it?” came a voice from behind her. Ted recognized it as that of Ezra Ares, the owner of the magical outfitters in town, the same witch who had helped him fireproof his cabin. Also, the town’s most socially acceptable law breaker.
“Ted,” Ruby True hollered over her shoulder.
Cold Cases and Haunted Places Page 6